


Acquired Tastes

by Argyle



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-24
Updated: 2011-06-24
Packaged: 2017-10-20 17:05:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/215050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Argyle/pseuds/Argyle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>The way to a man's heart isn't only through his stomach</i>, and other discoveries.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Acquired Tastes

It is well past nine when Erik wakes up. Unusual, yes, but not unheard of. He and Charles were up half the night, and Erik is still groggy, taxed in places he probably ought not be aware.

"Charles?" he calls, tentatively. He leans up on his elbows and scans the room -- Charles' bedroom, he notes, though he had hardly forgotten. The plush curtains are still drawn, leaving everything dim, but Erik can make out the mishmash of their clothes which lay abandoned between the door and the bed.

There are signs that Charles has been up and about: the door to the master bath is open, and Erik can see a fresh towel left out for him on the basin, and Charles' robe is conspicuously missing from its regular home on the bedpost. But the man himself is nowhere to be seen.

And so Erik tries this another way: _Charles?_

In answer, a thought-tendril brushes through Erik's mind. It's pleasant. More, it sends a warm wave of reassurance through him, settling in his belly, then down and down to pool in his groin. Such a simple act alone shouldn't be arousing, Erik knows.

But then there's that tendril again, and something like laughter, and Erik realizes that the thought contained more than just reassurance. He flashes back to Charles the night before, writhing and sweat-streaked beneath him, and again Erik is all but undone by just the sight. Power, so freely relinquished...

 _Breakfast first, my dear_ , comes Charles' response. _Meet me in the kitchen. Ah. If you can manage._

It's only then that Erik realizes he's half-hard already. Damn, but Charles has a way about him. A loathsome and wonderful way.

\---

The students are strangely absent from the hall, and from the common room as well. Indeed, a quiet morning in the mansion is a rare thing, and with the -- yes, call it what it is -- _intoxicating_ scent of breakfast wafting from the kitchen, Erik is amazed there's not a queue out the door. He wonders if Charles had anything to do with it, and that's the first thing he asks as he enters the kitchen.

"Yes," Charles confirms, not turning around from the stove. He's wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt, same as Erik, but atop that is a chef's apron, and his feet are bare. It makes him appear disarmed, almost boyish. "Five miles around the property, except for Hank, who gets to go fifteen."

"Hardly seems fair," Erik admonishes, not really meaning it. He crosses the room to stand close behind Charles, sets a hand on each of Charles' arms, and licks, then nips at the sensitive skin between Charles' neck and shoulder. He feels a shiver run through Charles' frame. "Preferential treatment."

 _Careful, Erik_ , Charles projects, a little haltingly. For a long moment, he continues to stir the pan of fried mushrooms before him. Then he sets the spatula down and turns round in Erik's hold, raising both hands to cup Erik's face before closing the distance between them.

Charles tastes salty, and sweet. Clearly he's been sampling the meal as the making of it goes along.

"The sacred right of every chef," Charles laughs once they've parted. His lips are flushed. And then he catches himself. "Erik. I'm sorry, I wasn't thinking. Sometimes I just..." he taps two fingers to his temple.

"If I minded," says Erik, a dash of menace -- and promise: here he bullets over an image of Charles bound to the bed frame -- eking into his words, "you would know."

" _Erik_." Charles smiles.

Erik does too, belatedly realizing that he means it. "So," he says. "What are you up to here?"

"Well, with all this business of training, we've not had time for a proper English fry-up. This morning seemed as good as any." A pause, and again that smile. "Or better."

"And the menu?"

"Oh," Charles sighs happily. "Mushrooms with onion. Bacon, fried eggs. Sliced tomato. Toast and butter -- er, do you prefer wheat, rye--" he cranes his neck to take in the sideboard "--or pumpernickel? And tea. Or coffee, if you'd like."

"Coffee," says Erik. "Charles, why didn't you wake me? I could have--"

"Helped? Erik, can you even scramble an egg?"

Erik ignores the spur. "I know my way around a kitchen," he says, leaving out the bit where 'kitchen' meant 'can-opener', and 'can-opener' meant a wave of his hand. "As do you, obviously. Why?"

"Basic survival turned past time," says Charles, turning back to the stove. He spoons the cooked mushrooms into a serving bowl and sets it on the counter. "My mother was hardly the domestic sort. We had a cook, naturally -- but then, I never much cared for French cuisine. Once Raven came, I took it upon myself to learn. There were several spectacular failures involving steak pie, let me tell you. Very few are born a dab hand, fully formed in toothsome arts."

He unties his apron and tosses it over a chair-back. Then, suddenly still, he presses Erik's hand. "As for why I didn't wake you... Well. You were dreaming. Now come and eat! I'm hardly in a mood to face the prospect of cold eggs."

\---

Later, sated, they sit together in the hothouse and sip steaming cups of coffee (Charles' second and Erik's third). The meal, Erik must admit -- for so much grease consumed in one place is wont to riddle even a level man's mind -- had been delicious.

Though the room is overgrown and disused, the air is clear and scented faintly of oranges, and also of deep earth and sun warmed leaves, a ghost of the forests of Erik's youth. Even the sturdy press of the old wrought chairs, once perfectly white but now chipped to reveal dark iron, is somehow familiar.

When they first arrived at the mansion, Erik wondered how Charles could stand to stay in such a place. How quiet Charles' boyhood must have been. It was little wonder he fled to the bustling streets of Oxford, seeking camaraderie, and no doubt also a chance to hone his gift. But now, Erik has begun to recognize the mansion's more elusive qualities, and even without Charles' guidance, he finds himself gravitating towards certain lived-in areas.

Which is to say this: the places Charles frequents most. The places that seem to retain Charles' presence even after he's gone.

Apparently Erik isn't the only one.

Both he and Charles turn, halting their conversation, as Raven comes through the hothouse door. She's changed out of her jogging suit, but her hair is still pleated in a blond stream down her back.

"Oh," she says, looking between them. "Sorry. Didn't know anyone was in here."

Charles smiles. "It's fine, Raven. Erik and I were just discussing the probability of mutation occurring in a majority population."

"And so mutants inherit the Earth?" Raven asks.

Erik pipes in, "Yes."

"Not exactly," Charles sighs.

"Um. So I was thinking we should go into the city sometime. You know? Do something a little less strenuous..."

"You're of course free to come and go as you choose, Raven," says Charles.

"I mean all of us." Raven's gaze shifts to Erik. "Hank hasn't seen the Guggenheim."

"I'll consider it."

"That means no, right?"

Charles shakes his head. "I'm just not certain it would be _wise_. We haven't yet been able to pinpoint Shaw's location, and the risk of exposure--"

"Right-o, Fearless Leader." Raven shifts. In a moment, Charles himself is standing before them. She speaks in his voice, the inflection nearly perfect, "I can think of ways to be inconspicuous."

Erik feels Charles bristle at the sight; something tells him it isn't the first time she's done that. He has to hand it to her: it isn't a bad tactic.

\---

"You don't think we're working them too hard, do you?" Charles asks later that night, staring down at the chess board. With a little coaxing, Charles agreed to bring the game into the bedroom with them. Erik sits on an ottoman and Charles is perched cross-legged on the bed itself, facing the fireplace. The height difference is slightly disconcerting; Erik is unused to Charles looking down at him. But it's worth it, Erik reckons. For them, chess has already become a form of foreplay, so they might as well be in a convenient location for what comes after.

But Charles is distracted. He toys with the duvet fringe, one silk strand between his thumb and forefinger. Finally, he meets Erik's eye. "Or do you?"

"Nothing worth doing is easy," says Erik. He advances a knight. Charles has never seen war. Not really. And if it is war that is brewing... Erik doesn't relish the thought, though he's not unused to it. "They're young, and impassioned. They saw Shaw's potential -- what happened to Darwin, his _murder_ right in front of them, and it's what they _want_. They can handle it."

"That's what worries me. We've taken these... children, really, and thrust them into a highly volatile and dangerous situation. Their lives will forever be changed."

"I don't think they were normal to begin with. No mutant's life _can_ be. Not in this world."

"But that's what we're working for, isn't it? To reach a level of accountability where what we are isn't monstrous, but accepted. Cherished, even."

Erik shakes his head. "What you're providing them with -- tutelage and experience -- cannot be underestimated. Charles, have you ever thought what your life would have been like if, at the onset of your abilities, you had had someone to learn from? Someone like yourself?"

"I had Raven," Charles says, simply. "It was with her help that I truly began to work things out."

 _And I had Schmidt_ , Erik thinks. Either Charles doesn't hear him, or has chosen to ignore this. Charles has a way of rationalizing everything.

After that, they fall into easy silence. Charles is winning the game, but barely: his queen's bite has been wicked tonight. Erik stares at the board and works out a trajectory, and after two moves with his rook (and two moves of Charles' bishop), he takes her.

Charles sniffs. "Damn. How on earth did I miss that?"

"The day has been long," Erik replies. Indeed, he had spent the whole afternoon testing and taxing his powers. Charles was by his side for most of that time, observing him and occasionally offering suggestions. Before sunset, they'd stood together by the balustrade, gazing on the satellite dish which loomed in the distance. With uncanny foresight, Charles seemed to grasp the scope of Erik's ability: _Soon_.

The possibility of it excites Erik more than it disturbs him. Never had he thought such a feat possible, but nor is he actually convinced he could move it. Even a day of comparatively simpler excursions has left him weary. "Shall we--" he stifles a yawn "--leave this for tomorrow?"

"What, just as you've taken the lead? My friend, don't expect a night's rest will let you keep it."

Without rising from the ottoman, Erik reaches forward to run his fingers down the collar of Charles' robe, dipping down to touch the warm, soft skin of Charles' throat. "You lend it too much credence," he says.

"If I didn't know better, I'd think you were taking advantage," Charles laughs shortly. His cheeks have taken on a sight flush, and his eyes are shadowed in the fickle light.

Erik hones in on the brass latches to either side of the chess board and gently lifts it to the other side of the room, never displacing a piece. "More like, estimating the spoils of battle," he says, toeing off his shoes and socks, and then slides up to sit beside Charles.

Charles' hands swiftly move to card through Erik's hair. "I'd feared you were too tired, darling."

"Don't be silly, Charles," Erik replies, making a broad sweep with both hands to push Charles' robe down from his shoulders. "You don't get far in life without emergency reserves." He leans in for a kiss, just savoring the contact for a moment, before using his tongue to part Charles' lips, teeth.

Charles lets out a low moan. His fingers work their way down Erik's back to settle and grasp the hem of Erik's turtleneck, pulling it up, and in a swift motion he yanks it from Erik's frame. Then he bundles it and launches it to the floor. "Silly," he breathes.

They tumble together back onto the bed. Erik moves atop Charles, finding a comfortable position between Charles' legs, and with the deft fingers of one hand he unties the belt of Charles' robe. Skin to skin, he moves to kiss Charles again.

And without warning, Charles is in his mind. _Erik. I want you--_

 _Yes_ , Erik thinks. He knows.

Erik laves his way down Charles' chest, pauses at a nipple, licks, then nips; Charles' flesh is so hot. For a moment, he pauses to admire the outline of Charles' cock as it strains against his pajama bottoms, then leans in to rub his cheek against it, breathing deep of musk, and beneath that, the crisp scent of Charles' soap.

 _My Charles_ , he thinks, which is certainly more than he should be allowed.

Charles squeezes Erik's shoulder. In a moment, Erik has Charles' pajamas down round his knees, then off, and he slowly licks a stripe up Charles' shaft, root to tip, pausing a moment to tease at Charles' slit with quick flicks of his tongue. He takes one of Charles' knees in each hand, bends his legs, and slowly parts them.

 _Oh._

Erik takes Charles in his mouth, and Charles' breath grows shallow just as his thoughts intensify: _Erik, God Erik_ and a frantic litany of _please_ and _now_. Erik's own cock is pressed hard against his zip, and with his free hand, he runs the heel of his hand along it-- but this can't last.

As Erik eases off, he can actually _sense_ the sudden, cold air on Charles' cock as though it was his own, and he misses the presence of his own mouth. Charles is gaping down at him, disheveled, a little wild-eyed, and gorgeous. A shiver passes through Erik, skirting the length of every coiled muscle.

Then Erik slides forward on the bed, again positioning Charles' knees. He grabs the jar of lubricant from the nightstand. "Charles?" he huffs.

" _Yes_ , Erik. Now."

Erik is careful as he prepares Charles, dutifully slicking his own fingers and then Charles' tight hole. "On your knees," he says when he has finished. Charles doesn't wait to be asked again. Erik positions himself behind him, only unbuttoning and lowering the zip of his trousers to part his y-fronts. He takes his cock in hand and moves it to Charles' arse.

 _Christ, but you're taking your merry time_ , Charles sends.

Erik lets out a low laugh. _Patience, Charles._ And one arm gripped tight round Charles' waist, he pushes in, slowly, far too slowly, teasing Charles until Erik's buried to the root. He helps Charles raise himself, Charles' back to Erik's chest, and then snakes his other hand around to take Charles' cock in his hand, pumping it in time as he begins to work his hips.

The trouser zip stings sweetly between them, an edge to the flushed movement of flesh on flesh. Erik presses deeper. Charles keens when he hits his prostate, arching back into Erik's hold.

 _Show me what you're feeling_ , Erik thinks.

And Charles does: heat and sweat, and the push-pull of Erik's cock in him, so far, too deep, not enough. Erik shudders. There's a shift and Charles is inside him, all around him; Erik is _encompassed_.

He comes then with a grunt. Charles is close behind him. Erik continues to work his hand on Charles, thumb by the hot tip of his cock as Charles spills over the sheets, and Erik rides him through the last jolts of orgasm.

They collapse together on the bed. Erik pulls out of Charles, then wriggles from his soiled trousers and underwear. For a time, Charles is still with him, sharing warm waves of blissed-out thought. Neither of them speak as they recover their breath. And hell, a sense of _where_.

Erik rises first, making for the bathroom. He runs the tap and splashes cool water over his face and shoulders, then grabs a washcloth and cleans himself off. The face in the mirror -- _Erik, what's keeping you so long?_ \-- somehow seems a fuller version of himself. But that's just an illusion, likely just Charles in his head, continuing to muck about.

He grabs another cloth, wets it, and tosses it to Charles as he returns to bed.

Charles laughs tiredly, taking it. "I shan't move for a week."

"Ah. So this is what the great Charles Xavier has been reduced to," says Erik. He looks Charles up and down as lasciviously as he's able.

"Well done," Charles replies, "And I think we've earned a holiday after all."

\---

It's an unseasonably warm day. For once, Erik is forced to remove his jacket and bunch his shirtsleeves round his elbows, but the touch of the breeze on his forearms offers little relief. Charles meanwhile seems unperturbed.

They spend the greater part of the morning in Central Park, walking in companionable silence from one shady bench to another. It's the first time they've truly been apart from the students and alone together since their time in Washington -- Erik made no secret of the fact that he regretted the company of Moira and Levene in Russia.

After weeks of training, it feels odd to be out of the mansion again, to move freely amongst so many humans. Erik allows Charles to act as a buffer: it's a wonder Charles is able to submerge himself in their world so completely, but Erik knows it's not without effort. Charles has schooled his mind. Just as Erik spent years plotting, honing his body into an optimal tool for revenge, Charles learned how to shut things out, or at least be selective about letting things in.

But occasionally, Erik sees him slip. Charles' eyes will take on a faraway cast as he latches onto a person's mind, digs to the core of grief and delight alike, and is still, sometimes for minutes at a time. What _empathy_ Charles affords them. It is a foreign thing, a tongue Erik had no occasion to learn.

Erik squeezes Charles' arm, breaking the link between his friend and an old woman seated on the edge of a fountain. Her appearance is immaculate, not a grey-blond hair out of place, pearl necklace perfectly set atop a dress as red as the turned maple leaves overhead. She looks up from her magazine, but not in their direction.

Charles shakes himself. "Sorry," he says, absently. And then: "I was thinking -- do you care for art?"

Erik doesn't. Not in any profound sense.

With distaste, he thinks on the landscapes and portraits which adorn every wall of the mansion, most of them crackled with time. Like everything else in Charles' home, all the furniture, silver, and books, they are garish relics of an age Erik hardly understood. To him, beauty is a well-formed plan brought to fruition.

Catching Erik's scowl, Charles presses on, "You won't hate it. I promise."

And Erik relents, not really knowing why.

Via a short cab ride, they make their way to the West Village. It's a spot, Charles says, he's visited with some regularity. "When I'm in the area, which hasn't been often of late," he admits. "Even the outcast has his home. But these people are more accepting of themselves, and through that, more accepting of the world. You'll see."

Erik has known of such places, in Paris or London or Prague. Havens for youth, loose, free-flowing thought, and also a certain decadence. The street is lined with shops, studios, and cafes. He follows Charles into a gallery full of canvases covered in glorified paint splatters and wide bands of color.

"Not unlike Rothko," Charles says, staring up at an immense yellow, orange, and red-streaked piece. He points to the fine stroke-marks which partition the colors. "It's really something, hmm? Look."

Erik does. He sees this: factory fires which blot out the grey sky, too bright to look on. Furnaces in the camp which consume the whole of his grey world. Sunrise in Miami on the day he caught up with Shaw's yacht.

He sees nothing at all.

\---

Charles stares abashedly up at the green and yellow striped awning, taking in the Vietnamese characters, then the single name in English: Viet Nam. "You're sure about this, Erik?"

"Trust me," says Erik. He grabs Charles' arm and all but bodily drags him into the restaurant. The place is bustling, though it's well past the dinner hour. They wait a few minutes -- Charles glancing here and there at the glinting tapestries which line the walls, lone adornments in an otherwise modest space, and Erik breathes in the deep, rich scent of cooking food -- before a host takes them to a table near the window.

Charles folds into his seat, still looking about him. "Admittedly," he says, "there's a great sense of calm among our fellow patrons. And contentment. They really _like_ it here. The farther one is from home, the more a person clings to reminders."

Erik doesn't exactly agree with him, but he also doesn't bother to argue. Instead, he scans the menu: it hasn't changed a bit since the last time he was here. A year ago, he'd spent three days in New York on a lead that Alida Fuchs, onetime arm-accessory of Klaus Schmidt, had been seen in a Fifth Avenue boutique. The knife was sharp on her throat; she'd hardly felt a thing.

Erik shakes himself, pulling back from the memory. Charles is now staring at him. He stretches a hand across the table, but stops just short of Erik's arm. "Erik?"

"It's fine," Erik says. "Well? Don't tell me you're shy about trying worldly delicacies, Charles."

"No, no. I practically lived on takeaway curry during my time at Oxford."

"Good."

"But... I believe I'll let you order for me this time, my friend."

Erik smiles: a simple, swift quirk of his lips. "And what do you crave?"

 _Whatever is most delicious_ , Charles projects.

When the waiter appears, Erik orders _bún riêu_ for them both. Despite his hunger, he's careful with each bite, savoring the salty, savory broth.

Charles too is pleased. Around a mouthful of noodle, he says happily, "This is magnificent. I never would have known. You're full of surprises, Erik Lehnsherr."

"Oh, the surprise is to come," says Erik, quizzically. Surely even Charles cannot guess just how deep the well of him goes: it's a lie he's willing to tell himself.

They remain at their table, debating, staring into the street, simply _observing_ , long after their bowls are cleared away. Erik supposes they'll go for a nightcap later -- Charles mentions that a favorite pub is but a quick walk away.

Eventually, they'll return to their car and drive into the night. The mansion will be dark on their return.


End file.
